Serendipity
by karabair
Summary: Pre-series, Beau Felton and Megan Russert working in narcotics
1. Default Chapter

"Serendipity"   
  
Note: So in digging through old files, I came upon this "Homicide" fic that I wrote a few years back (August 2000, actually), which is probably the first piece I wrote that can still be described as a short story. I thought I'd put it up here, as there isn't too much HLOTS stuff. This was posted back in 2000 on the Homicon website, where it won 3rd prize in the fanfic contest. (Still the only money I've ever made for writing fiction!) But I figure it's been long enough that no one will mind me posting it here.   
  
Description: This fic was inspired by my interest in the affair between Beau Felton & Megan Russert in season 3. There's not much backstory on how they got together, but as Felton and Russert both came to Homicide from narcotics, I figured they were old friends before becoming lovers. So I made up this story about them working together, two years before the series started. Beau and Megan are the main POV characters, with substantial walk-ons for Frank Pembleton and Kay Howard, and cameos for Munch, Lewis, and Crosetti. Bayliss isn't in Homicide yet, of course, though I have no idea where Gee and the Big Man are. The content is mostly character, with some procedural (lame; if I'd seen "The Wire" at that point I could've done better), minimal romance, and moderate angst.   
  
Disclaimer: Well, think about it, the show's been off the air for 5 years, I'm probably not affiliated with NBC or Fontana/Levinson in any way.   
  
(1/4)  
  
Baltimore, 1991.   
  
"Sugar Ray Phelps," cried Detective Beau Felton. "Has it been six months already? Time sure flies when you're watchin' your ass in the shower."   
  
"Screw you, Felton!" The chubby young man scrunched his face into an expression that made it clear how many things he would rather do at eight in the morning than talk to a narcotics detective. A very sensible attitude, that, given Sugar Ray's regular vocation.   
  
"Good to see they taught you some manners in Jessup, Shug," Felton laughed. He turned to a tall, thin boy with his hair cut in a high-top fade. "Tony T, Tony T." Beau stabbed his thumb toward a spot twenty yards down the street, where crime scene tape didn't shield the neighborhood's newest stiff from anyone who was interested. Hardly anyone was. "Sorry 'bout Jinx gettin' whacked. Must be cuttin' into your business, all the junkies goin' to Monroe Street.   
  
"Screw you, too," Tony snorted. "If you poh-leece was good for nothin', you wouldn' be ridin' me, you'd be finding the per-pet-ator of this crime."   
  
"Perpetator?" Felton repeated.   
  
"The dude what done Jinx. Some Cobra gimp from Vine Street." Tony sputtered his indignation at such police stupidity. "The per-PET-ator."   
  
A smile crossed Beau's face. "I'm glad you're such a concerned citizen, Tony. 'Cause it seems like a good place to start looking would be with a couple pieces of walking excrement clogging up the sidewalk fifty feet from where your buddy hit the pavement."   
  
"Use your brain, man!" Tony protested. "Cobras done Jinx. They movin' in our corners - I mean, they movin' in where they think Jinx been dealin' where he just min'in his own business." Felton raised an eyebrow and Tony sputtered. "Man, you know I woul'nt whack Jinx; he wif my sister."   
  
"Oh, he whiff her, did he?" Beau laughed. "Well, that's funny, cause I got a whiff o' your sister once and. . ."  
  
A hand clenched the back of Beau's shoulder, and a voice inches from his ear demanded: "Do you have a problem with the way the man talks?"   
  
Beau twisted around to face a scowling black face framed with extremely short hair and mirrored sunglasses. The man looked vaguely familiar, and extremely unhappy. Giving the kids a look that said, "Don't move," he jerked Felton aside.   
  
"What the hell are you doing here?" the newcomer demanded. Perfect diction, like he practiced with a tape recorder. A Fed? Beau flipped out his shield. If the guy even glanced at the ID, it was impossible to tell behind those glasses. "What the hell are you doing here?" he repeated. "What we have here is called a homicide. When we have a homicide, who controls the crime scene?"   
  
"A detective?" The sarcasm was thick in Felton's reply.   
  
"What kind of detective?" Again not waiting for an answer. "Right, boys and girls, a homicide detective."   
  
"Oh, really, jerkoff?" said Felton, drawing a step closer, speaking quietly to avoid attracting more attention than they already had. "Well, I'm a narcotics detective, and seeing as your quote unquote victim is lying on the corner of Fayette and Mount, and just happens to have spent most of his sorry life slinging dope for Shawn "Mac Daddy" McKenzie - maybe I'm going out on a limb, but we thought there might be a drug angle on this one."   
  
"Absolutely brilliant. And did you ever think there might be such thing as a witness who might tend to run at the first sight of a narcotics detective - "   
  
"Frank! Beau!" cried a female voice. "What the. . .?"   
  
They both turned to face Megan Russert, and the homicide detective blinked in surprise. "Russert?"   
  
"Frank, what is this? You have a problem with my partner?"   
  
"With your. . .?" Frank turned to Felton, then back to Russert. He raised his sunglasses onto his forehead and, to Felton's shock, broke into a brilliant smile. "Russert, you're partnered with this goombah?" Frank shook his head, still smiling. "I was just getting used to the other goombah." Lowering his voice and leaning close to Megan, he said, "I don't suppose there's any chance he got hit by a bus?"   
  
To Beau's further astonishment, Megan smiled back. "Nope, sorry, Doug's gone fishing. He sends his love though."   
  
"I'm sure," Frank grunted. "Meanwhile Detective, er, Fulton here" - the look on his face said that he had read Beau's badge and that the mispronunciation was no mistake -"has been harassing potential witnesses."   
  
"You mean those guys?" Megan pointed to Tony T. and Sugar Ray, who were standing unhappily under the supervision of a uniformed officer. "Who, if I hadn't stopped them, would have taken off while you guys were playing 'Whose is bigger?'"   
  
Pembleton cast a look at Felton and pressed his lips together as if suppressing a comment. Russert continued: "Short version. Beau's working with Dane Stevens on the Mac Daddy drug ring. . ."   
  
"They've been getting into it with the Cobras from down on Vine Street," Beau added.   
  
"They have?" gasped Pembleton, and to Felton's sour look said, "Who do you think has been catching the bodies, Fulton, auto? My money says, this is more of the same. Those guys -" He jerked his head at Sugar and Tony - "- had nothing to do with it, and they just might know who expunged Mr. Ellis." Frank turned to Megan as if Beau spoke another language and she had to interpret. "If your partner doesn't scare them off with a drug charge."   
  
Megan nodded and, to Beau's annoyance, talked back as if he wasn't there. "Fair enough. These guys are small time. Ellis was pretty big, though, and all we want to know is - who's stepping up? How is this going to shake down?"   
  
Frank nodded. "Fair enough."   
  
"Now," Megan spread her hands and smiled broadly. "What can we do to help?"   
  
"Help," Frank mused. "How novel. I'll see what. . ." The medical examiner called to Frank and he held out a hand. "Hold that thought, Megan. I'll be right back."   
  
"Megan," Beau muttered. "So, Frank, you two go way back?"   
  
Pembleton shrugged, spread his hands, and cast his most angelic smile at Megan. "You know. The department's wunderkinder have to keep an eye on each other."   
  
He trotted off, and Beau turned to Megan in disbelief. "Voodoo-what?"   
  
Megan was fighting back a smile. "Wonder kids," she said, "It's German."   
  
"Funny, he doesn't look German," Beau groused, "And he was flirting with you."   
  
"I was flirting back," she answered. "Do you need one rope or two?"   
  
"I. . ." Beau threw his arms out. "That wasn't a racial comment, Megan. Just - well, you're married."   
  
Megan snorted with laughter, and it was her turn to look incredulous. "Beau Felton, Mr. Moral High Ground. That's Frank, Beau, he's a flirt. It means nothing. Anyway, you'd better get used to Frank Pembleton. If office gossip means anything, his ass'll be brass in no time."   
  
"Ahh, the voodoo kids. Now I get it. You and Frank, soldiers together today, generals together tomorrow."   
  
Megan frowned and Beau realized he had touched a raw nerve. "Funny, if I'm just slouching my way to a promotion, the way everybody seems to think, why am I busting my ass on the street?"   
  
Beau grinned. "'Cause you love the company." Pembleton waved them forward, and Beau nudged Megan. "After you. Voodoo kid."   
  
"Screw you, Felton." Ah, partners, he thought. And then, quite inappropriately, Man, does she have a great ass. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Serendipity"  
  
Disclaimer: Love 'em, don't own 'em.  
  
(2/4)  
  
"You are liking the baseball?" asked Mr. Park, peering intently across the counter at Detective Felton.   
  
"Baseball?" Beau waved a hand to indicate 'so-so'. "I'm more of a football guy."   
  
The store owner indicated a photograph taped to the register. "My nephew in Seoul. National team. Very fine pitcher. You like some fresh fruit for Mrs Felton? Very fine."   
  
"Well, we're not supposed to accept. . .damn, but those are some nice peaches!"   
  
In the back of Park's store, Megan Russert looked up from the telephone and smiled. First he almost gets killed by Frank Pembleton, now he's ready to compromise both of us with illegal gifts.   
  
"Hey, Sarge, did you page me?" Megan asked the receiver, and listened to Lonnie Sixsmith recite the previously vital stats on Dontay Ellis. "Yeah, we knew most of that." She nodded. "We've spent all morning helping homicide canvass on the off chance we'd find somebody who knows something. Plus, Pembleton will owe us a favor."   
  
"Pembleton?" The sergeant chuckled. "Felton's still alive?"   
  
"Amazingly," Megan answered. "Beau dragged me into this Korean grocery store to answer your page. He explained to me how the guy owes him one for chasing some dealers off his corner." She imitated Felton's voice. "You know how those Orientals are, they're so gracious. The gospel according to Beauregard Felton, on race, immigration, and ethnic stereotyping 101."   
  
"I don't wanna know," said Sixsmith firmly. "And I don't wanna know if he's quote- unquote shopping for anything, either. I suppose it's too much to hope you've toyed with Felton's heart and broken it in the past three hours."   
  
"Perish the thought," she said slyly. "I'm a married woman."   
  
"Too bad, would've been entertaining. Dunno why else you'd ever ride with the guy."   
  
"Because, Lonnie," said Megan, looking to the front of the store where Beau was knocking enthusiastically on a row of melons. "It's fun."   
  
Russert hung up and heard Beau exclaim, "Listen to that echo!" If he can shop for fruit, she thought, I can make a personal call. She took a breath and dialed.   
  
"At least the morning wasn't a total loss," Beau said, pawing enthusiastically through the bag of fruit. "Banana?" he asked, handing one to Megan.   
  
"Yeah, you alienated a fellow detective and took a bribe." Hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, she asked, "Got a pear?"   
  
Felton polished a juicy Bartlett with his shirt and handed it to Megan. "According to his culture, it would be some kind of mortal insult if I didn't accept." To her skeptical gaze, he nodded solemnly. "Dane told me so."   
  
"Oh, and Dane Stevens from Bump-ASS, Virginia is the resident expert on Asian cultures?"   
  
"Dane did two tours in 'Nam. And it's pronounced Bump-us, OK, don't let Dane hear you say it like that."  
  
"I was stationed in Seoul for . . .Damn, that's a good pear," she sighed, catching the juice with her tongue. "Can't complain now, I'm tainted."   
  
"That's the idea. Wanna take some grapefruit?"   
  
"Maybe I'll - look, I have to go home for lunch, might be a little long."   
  
"Caroline?" he asked.   
  
"Yeah," Megan heard herself lying. "She's been. . .sick, at home." She tried to disguise the hesitation by finishing off the pear.   
  
"My husband is - staying with her - taking some time, but he's got to do some - stuff, and - "  
  
"They got all that touchy feely family leave stuff at Gant and Donovan?"   
  
"Mike does, seeing as he's Donovan."   
  
"Dunno why you didn't change your name to Donovan," Beau snickered, and sang "Dum-de-dum-de-dum. Mellow yello-o-o."   
  
"I'm surprised you know that song, Beau. I had no idea you were so in touch with your inner wuss. Anyway," she snapped. "Bet you'd have freaked out if Beth wanted to keep her name." She wasn't sure why she was provoking him. Maybe to change the subject from her own marriage. Maybe to take revenge on herself for enjoying his company too much.   
  
Beau snorted. "Beth Higenbotham, of Boring, Maryland. Believe me, she was just as anxious to ditch the name as the town."   
  
"Long lunch," Megan repeated. "OK? No more than an hour and a half."   
  
Beau rubbed his chin, musing, "Will the war on drugs still be going on if Megan takes an extra half hour for lunch? I'm gonna go out on a limb and say yes."   
  
Maybe I shouldn't, thought Megan, poised with her hand on the bedroom door. Maybe I should turn around, go back to work, and let him play whatever game it is he's playing. If it makes him happy, who am I to say. . . No. Tiptoeing around to avoid confrontation had never been her way. Besides, she didn't want him to have to hide things from her. Or, she admitted, to be able to.   
  
Megan eased the door open, walked in slowly, and sat on the bed. He slept on his side, with the sheet pulled over his head; he always did when she let him. She thought of a shroud and quickly uncovered his face. His skin looked yellow next to the white cotton, and for a panicky second she doubted he was breathing. Then he stirred, and the back of her hand came to rest on his cheek. God, it was like ice. She pulled her hand away, but then she bent to kiss the same spot.   
  
"Mike?" she whispered. He emerged from the sheets slowly, rubbing thin fingers over the ruins of his eyebrows.   
  
"Caroline," he muttered. Facing Megan with a puzzled look, he said, "Day-care. I'm -supposed to - take - Caroline?"  
  
Megan smiled and leaned forward to kiss his cheek again. "That was this morning. I did it for you. It's twelve-thirty now, and I'm home for lunch." He stared at her, then at the clock, nodding in slowly dawning comprehension.   
  
"Me too." Nodding faster. "I came home - for lunch."   
  
She lowered her head and stared as she inched closer to him on the bed. Reaching out for his pajama sleeve, she said, "How'd you get through three years of law school, and still be such a bad liar?"   
  
"All right." The kind of 'you-caught-me' grin the guilty use to hide their greater sins. "I didn't go in to the office today." He nodded at a pile of papers on the desk. "I brought some files home to look at." Still the stare from Megan. "What?"   
  
"I called the office, and your secretary let slip you haven't been in all week."   
  
"Damn Janet!" he cried, slipping down into the bed.   
  
"I told you to fire her." She lifted her feet to the mattress and lay down beside him. "This makes up for all those messages of mine that she garbled."   
  
"What can I say, hon, I feel like crap." He ran a hand over the black and gray hairs that were just starting to sprout from his skull. "I've been out of chemo for a month. Aren't I supposed to start feeling better at some point?"   
  
"Everyone's different," Megan answered, forcing a smile. "Just like being pregnant." Slipping her fingers down to touch his scalp, she thought of the dark, messy curls that had covered that skin for thirty-seven years before that awful spring. The changes from the treatment had been gradual enough that she had to look at old pictures or summon distant memories to realize how much the chemo had aged him. His thin face had become gaunt, the line of his crooked nose even sharper. Megan forced herself to focus on his eyes, deep and serious as ever. That's the thing about eyes, she thought. Nothing changes them. She squeezed his shoulder and said through gritted teeth. "Don't lie to me, Mike. It doesn't do any good."   
  
"Hmm." He pulled up the sheets and turned his face from her. "Maybe it does me some good."   
  
"What?" She cringed at the sharpness in her own voice.   
  
"Maybe it helps me," he repeated, still not facing her, "when you don't look at me like I'm a poor sick little puppy dog."   
  
"Mike, for God's sake." She willed herself to sound reasonable. "I just want you to take care of yourself. Don't push things too hard."   
  
"Right, because we all know bedrest cures cancer. You should go work for the CDC, you and my mom with her chicken soup."   
  
"Mike," she sighed. Then, "sorry." She inched closer and squeezed his hand. He pulled the blankets aside so she could climb under. She kicked off her shoes and slipped in next to him, rubbing a hand along his neck. "Damn, I could use a nap."   
  
"Right," Mike whispered. "A nap." His right hand brushed her breast and his left stroked her inner thigh. He rolled toward her and caught her lips in a full-mouthed kiss. Under the blankets, he worked on the button of her slacks. Megan shivered as his fingers brushed her, but then she caught his hand with her own. She pulled away from the kiss and warned: "Mike."   
  
"What?" he spoke sharply and reached for her waist again.   
  
"This isn't a good idea now. You'll just get all worked up for nothing and. . ." Eyes wide in disbelief, he let her go and slammed his body back onto the bed. "Don't get mad at me!" she protested.   
  
"Right, because this is my fault."   
  
"Mike!" Megan brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it softly. "You know I don't mean that." She rubbed his scalp again with her thumb and forefinger and whispered, "You're still not strong, and you're taking a lot of medicine. OK? Give it some time, all right?" she soothed. "Remember what the doctor. . ."   
  
"Yes, Mom," Mike muttered.   
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Too sharply again.   
  
"You talk to me like you talk to Caroline."   
  
"You act about as mature as she does sometimes."   
  
"You just don't want me to touch you," he grumbled, and she heard a three year old's petulance in his voice.   
  
"Look, you . . ." Megan leaned across his chest and met his lips. They were cold, even his tongue was cold, but she kept kissing him for a long time. Finally, it was Mike who brought a hand to her face and coaxed it aside. She brought her mouth down by his ear and whispered, "Look, it'll take some time, but this part will pass. Your medication - we can talk to the docs about it. Then, when you're feeling better, we should. . ." She patted his arm and sat up. "Go on a trip. It's been too long. St. Thomas or Puerto Rico."   
  
Still lying on his side, Mike shook his head without lifting it from the pillow. "Somewhere we haven't been. Spain."   
  
"Run with the bulls?" Megan suggested. Kissing his cheek, she got to her feet and shrugged. "Why not?" She walked to the desk and started checking the due dates on a pile of neglected bills. Busy month.   
  
He rolled on his back and stretched his arms over his head, pushing his hands against the wall. "Speaking of vacations and big dumb animals, who's taking care of you while Doug's at sea?"   
  
"I'm gonna pretend you're delirious and forget you said that." She hesitated, then added lightly, "Felton."   
  
"Beau Felton?" She could hear the scowl in Mike's voice. "Isn't he the guy who told Doug. . .?"   
  
"That he thought I was quote unquote hot, yes. When he was three sheets to the wind on a barstool in the Wharf Rat, in a room full of cops who were celebrating the birth of Beau's second child - talk about class, huh." Mike snorted and Megan grinned. "Hon, Felton is neither competing with you nor harassing me, all right?" She dropped the bills and leaned down over the bed to kiss him. "Doug just told you - and everyone else in Maryland, apparently - because he thought it was funny." Another scowl, another kiss. "It is funny. Now. . ." She flattened down the bedspread to erase her own form. "I'm gonna get some lunch. Hungry?"   
  
"Not for food," he sighed. Megan turned to leave the room, and Mike said, "I've been thinking that maybe we should have another kid."   
  
The shock that ran through her was so powerful that she thanked God Mike couldn't see her face. She turned slowly back and saw him searching her for a reaction. She sat on the bed again and said, "That's a little sudden."   
  
"Why?" he challenged. "We've always said we wanted Caroline to have a brother or sister."   
  
She nodded. "No, you're right, it's just - now, with everything uncertain."   
  
"Megan," he coughed. "You know what it's been like between us since . . . If we want to. . .the next few months might be it for us. I mean, unless you're into freezing sperm, we may not have another chance."   
  
"Don't talk like that!" Megan snapped.   
  
"Right," Mike sighed, shifting against his pillow. "Bed rest and chicken soup and not talking about it - listen, we don't have to talk now. But think about it." He stared at her with those eyes that were just like his daughter's. "Please?"   
  
Megan nodded. "I'm thinking."   
  
End part 2 


	3. Chapter 3

"Serendipity"  
  
Disclaimer: Love 'em, don't own 'em.  
  
(3/4)  
  
Beau Felton had set one foot in the homicide squadroom when he was almost flattened by a tailback sweep.   
  
"Oh, damn!" cried the tall, goateed black detective who had nearly trampled over him. "Sorry 'bout that man," the guy said, bouncing a worn football in his hands. "Didn't see you comin' in there."   
  
Something clicked in Beau's memory. "You're Lewis, right?"   
  
The cop eyed Beau warily and backed away. "Depends on who wants to know."   
  
"Meldrick is afraid you're a process server!" called a skinny detective with narrow glasses.   
  
"You the one oughta know from lawsuits, Munch," Meldrick Lewis shot back. "What with as many dee-vorces you got. Besides," he sniffled. "I don' know what this lady's all worked up about, whip-lash, it was just a fender bender. . ."   
  
"And who uses their turn signals in Baltimore," chimed Munch and another cop, obviously reassuring Lewis with a mantra of his own making.   
  
"That's what I'm saying!" cried Lewis, spreading his hands in indignation.   
  
"I think you're safe from the forces of personal injury law for now," said the third cop. Beau recognized him as Lewis's partner, Steve Crosetti. "Meldrick, you ought to remember Detective Fulton from narcotics."   
  
Close enough, Beau thought. Out loud, he asked, "Is Pembleton around?"   
  
"Oh yeah," Munch said, nodding sagely. "Pembleton is never far from his desk." This sent the other two into a fit of laughter, and Beau started to bristle. What was is with these homicide guys that everything was a joke unless they decided it was serious?   
  
Maybe in remorse for almost taking Beau's foot off, Lewis answered.. "Frank's workin' on. . ." Lewis's eyes drifted to a white dry-erase board. "Ellis," he said. Beau saw the name "Ellis" written in red. Above it were a string of black names and a few more in red. The name "Pembleton" headed the column. "Yeah," said Lewis. "Jinx Ellis. One o' them West Side drug war killin's. Stone whodunit, mos' likely."   
  
"Well. . ." Beau cleared his throat. "I have reason to believe that may not be a drug war killing after all."   
  
Shock and awe were notably absent from the faces of the homicide squad. Crosetti and Munch had abandoned football to argue about the chess problem in the Sun, and Lewis shrugged. "I guess you can leave him a note or something. Man, Steve," he called to Crosetti, "I tried the answer they gave once, and your niece checkmated me in three moves."   
  
"Did it ever occur to you," Crosetti shot back, "that you're lousy at chess?"   
  
"Angela was eight-and-under diocese champion!" Lewis protested, leaning over to look at the paper.   
  
"Right, knucklehead," his partner answered. "I just said that to make you feel better."   
  
"Thanks," Beau mouthed to no one. He walked to Frank's desk, thinking. If his hunch was good, he wouldn't have to let Pembleton in on it at all. It would be great to present him with the "perpetator", but if Frank had already investigated this angle, Beau would feel like a schmuck, but. . ."Pembleton hasn't called in, has he?" Beau addressed the back of head covered with long red curls, whose hands were rummaging through a nearby desk.   
  
A slender woman turned to face him. "Do I look like a secretary?"she demanded. Her face bore intelligent green eyes over a sharp nose, and more to the point, her brown-checked men's style suit jacket clearly displayed the bulge of a shoulder holster.   
  
"You a detective?" Beau asked.   
  
"No," she snapped. "I'm the stripper. I wear this -" she fingered her gun, "because I get better tips."   
  
After the indifference of the others, her reaction made Beau smile and he offered a hand. "Felton - narcotics."   
  
"Hey, Felton Narcotics, I'm Howard Homicide." She took his hand and smiled back. Her face was smooth and un-made-up, her hair vibrant and flowing red. Beau's mind clicked to "Howard" at the head of one column on the board, over a long list of black names. If that meant what Beau thought it meant, Detective Howard was no secretary.   
  
"I need to talk to Pembleton about this Ellis case."   
  
Howard shrugged. "You could leave a note. . ."   
  
Beau threw out his hands and headed for the door. "Forget it."   
  
Howard caught him in the hall. "Hey!" She reached out a finger and, to his surprise, touched the skin on his hand. "It doesn't feel that thin, hmm?."   
  
When Beau got it, he smiled too. "What's next, gonna check my shoulder for chips?"   
  
"If need be. . ." She spread her hands. "Got a theory about the West Side Drug War, 1991 edition, lay it on me."   
  
"I'm not sure Ellis is a drug killing." Howard raised an eyebrow, and Felton said, "Hear me out. We get there this morning, I see Tony T. Tolliver and Sugar Ray Phelps - a couple nobodies in Mac Daddy's crew - hangin' around, screamin' about how the Cobras perpetatrated this hit."   
  
"Perpetetrated?" Kay repeated.   
  
"Don't ask. So I'm wondering - what are they doing there?"   
  
"Want you to catch the guys that kacked their friend, I guess. Great faith in the American system of justice as the best way to avenge their buddy's death."   
  
"Yeah, that sounds likely. They know we're goin' after the Cobras, why risk hanging around unless. . ."   
  
"They want to throw suspicion off themselves. Which isn't necessary, except. . ."   
  
"Crime makes you stupid." Beau said. "Not that Tony and Sugar need help in the stupidity department."   
  
"You think, what, they want to take over Ellis's territory?"   
  
Beau shook his head. "Not high enough up for that. But maybe Tony's got a personal beef with Ellis? He can get him out of the way by. . ."   
  
"Stealing the Cobras' M.O." Howard nodded. "Who notices another body in the middle of a war. You said there were two guys there. Why do you suspect, um, Mr. T?"   
  
"'Cause I pity the fool. . ." Beau said in his best B.A. Baracus. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. Because Tony said something to me about Jinx - that's Ellis - dating his - Tony's - sister. And going back through the files, I remembered - I locked up one of Tony's old girlfriends for distribution a while back, and she basically accused everybody she knew of everything under the sun. I wrote it all down and we looked into some of it, but some of it was just so out there."   
  
"Like. . .?" Howard prompted.   
  
"Like she thought that Tony T. and his sister Nisha were - close."   
  
"So?"   
  
"Really close."   
  
"Ahh. . ." She narrowed her eyes. "Like in one of those Greek tragedies."   
  
"Yeah," Beau said. "Geraldo Rex. Among her various rantings and ravings, this Wanda woman tells me how some corner boy was hanging around Nisha too much. Tony got jealous and threatened to kill the guy if he didn't leave town."   
  
"So maybe this time - more than threats, hmmm?" Howard pondered. "Well - I can tell Frank to keep it in mind, maybe ask Tony some questions, but it's not like we're gonna get a warrant off a hunch and an old rumor." She shrugged. "Pembleton works alone, and last I heard he was questioning the Cobra crew."   
  
"And it's not like a dead pusher is worth more than one detective anyway, is that what you're saying?" Beau didn't disapprove, just wanted to know where he stood.   
  
Howard smiled. "All murder victims are equal. And I can get you a good deal on the Francis Scott Key bridge."   
  
"Right so. . .if just by chance Tony and Nisha were shacked up in a crackhouse on Bruce Street? And just by chance narcotics knew this was a crackhouse and a couple narcotics detectives could make some calls and get a warrant? If maybe somebody in this house wanted to get out from under a distribution charge and maybe knew something about Tony doing Jinx?"   
  
"I like the way you think, Felton Narcotics."   
  
"It's Beau. Thank you, Howard Homicide."   
  
Howard smiled. "Kay. And naturally this conversation never happened, seeing as we wouldn't want to condone using drug raids as an excuse. . ."   
  
"I'm sorry, were we discussing something?" He smiled and added. "I'll just be getting back to my narcotics duties with Detective Russert. . ."   
  
"You're Megan Russert's partner?" Kay asked a bit too eagerly.   
  
"Just for this week" Beau confessed. "And I saw all that black under your name." He smiled. "Don't be modest, you're a voodoo kiddy too."   
  
"A what?"   
  
"Ask Frank," Beau said. "It takes one to know one."   
  
"About time you got here." Beau accosted Megan in the parking garage. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"   
  
"Let's. . ." Russert stared at him. "Whatever happened to 'take your time, the war on drugs . . ."   
  
"Blah blah blah - " He waved dismissively. "That was before we had the warrant."   
  
"Warrant?" Megan asked blankly.   
  
"In the car. I'll explain later. Cassidy and O'Reilley are coming for backup." He urged her into the car and asked. "How's Caroline?"   
  
"Caroline?" Megan sounded more confused then ever, then hastily added, "Oh, fine. Terrific - now, fill me in."   
  
"Police! Open up, we got a warrant!" Russert and Felton lined up on the stoop, guns drawn.   
  
The door swung cautiously open, and they faced a skinny, wide-eyed boy of no more than ten. "Stand back," Russert said gently, then yelled, "Come out or we're coming in!" Footsteps sounded overhead, and the two young Irish cops who had entered through the back raced up the stairs to herd occupants into the center. They were mostly women, a few kids, and some sullen young men, but no one resisted. They knew the drill.   
  
Beau approached the last closed door, a downstairs bathroom, when a piercing scream sounded inside. He reached for the knob, and it flew out of his hand as a tall, thin girl of nineteen flung herself onto the hallway floor. Blood ran from her wrists, but when she raised her hands, Beau could tell the cuts were not deep. She clutched a pink safety razor, struggling to remove the blade.   
  
"Put it down," said Beau firmly. He pointed his gun and fumbled for rubber gloves. She gave a quick nod, sat up, and gulped down a sob. Felton dropped an unopened pack of tissues by her hands. She tore them open and rushed to dab her wrists, all the time babbling out of control.   
  
"Tony, it was Tony - it was his idea, just - he made me do things, man, bad things - it was Tony! I didn't want to kill him, but he -" she choked out a sob "- Tony made me and Sugar help. I didn't wan-n-n-t tooooo!" she howled   
  
Megan approached and knelt beside the girl. "So, you, Nisha Tolliver, helped your brother Tony Tolliver, and Sugar Ray Phelps, plan the murder of Jinx Ellis?"   
  
Nisha nodded, sniffling into the tissues, then looked slowly from Megan to Beau. "That is what you're here for?"   
  
Beau smiled warmly, placed a hand on Nisha Tolliver's shoulder, and pulled her to her feet. "It is now."   
  
End Part 3 


	4. Chapter 4

"Serendipity"  
  
Disclaimers: Love 'em, don't own 'em.  
  
(4/4)   
  
"Serendipity," said Frank Pembleton. "Ser-en-dip-i-ty. Defined as, the aptitude or ability of making discoveries by accident."   
  
"Gee, Pembleton," said Beau, slouching against the wall of the observation room. "Now that I know you, I can take my word-of-the-day calendar back for a refund." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "What will I do with the six-ninety-five?"   
  
"I do not believe," Frank continued, "in serendipity."   
  
"The girl's a little sketchy," admitted Howard, who leaned on the wall next to Beau. "But Sugar Ray backs up her story. And once Tony T. thinks about it for a while. . ." Kay gestured through the glass to the interview room. The hate-filled eyes of Tony Tolliver stared back.   
  
Pembleton waved a hand. "I believe the sister's story," he said. "The part about the killing anyway, if not about what a poor victim she is. I just find it - puzzling - that Felton so serendipitously stumbled on her, and she was so - eager - to confess."   
  
Beau stared at Frank. "Are you suggesting, what, I beat it out of her?" Frank's gaze didn't waver. Beau snorted. "Ask Russert." Frank looked as if he was ready to take him up on the offer.   
  
"She took Nisha to Central Booking, Frank," Kay interjected. "But come on, it's not that hard to do the math. This kid helps take out one of Mac Daddy's big guns. She knows what Mac's capable of. When someone comes storming into her house, she's glad it's just the police."   
  
Frank shrugged, still looking unsatisfied. Then he rubbed his hands and turned back to the Box. "Now to finish off Tony T."   
  
With a cursory glance at Beau, he said, "I can take it from here."   
  
Felton rolled his eyes, and Frank demanded, "What do you want me to say?"   
  
"Good work. Thank you." It was Kay's voice, directed at Frank.   
  
Frank's eyes flitted from Beau to Kay, then back again. "When's the wedding?" he asked.   
  
"As soon as you learn some manners." Kay's voice carried a warning.   
  
"Good work," Frank said flatly. "Thank you." He strode into the interview room without looking back.   
  
Beau stared after Pembleton and fantasized about kicking those perfect teeth in.   
  
"It's not always that easy, hmm?" Kay jerked him back to reality.   
  
"Getting Pembleton to share the credit?" Beau muttered.   
  
"No, dingbat," she smiled. "Solving murders."   
  
Beau shrugged, flipped his jacket over his shoulder, and made for the exit. "Not that I'll be worrying about doing that anytime soon."   
  
"Too bad," Kay said mildly.   
  
Felton stopped short. "What do you mean?"   
  
She shrugged. "Just that my partner retired five months ago, and the powers that be have finally approved Gee - Lieutenant Giardello, that is - to hire another detective."   
  
"You mean, I could work with Frank Pembleton and poke around dead bodies every day? You think if I asked, I could have a pay cut?"   
  
"The coffee sucks, too." Kay smiled. "I'll put in a good word for you."   
  
Megan stepped onto the roof and saw Beau seated at a picnic table, blowing cigarette smoke out over the darkening harbor.   
  
"Ah, there's the great detective." Beau turned and Megan handed him a can of Coke. "Drinks are on me," she said, slipping onto the bench beside him. "Oh, and congratulations on the brilliant police work."   
  
Beau stubbed his cigarette on the table and reached into his coat pocket for another. "This case fell in my lap."   
  
Megan shrugged. "You were there to catch it."   
  
"Serendipity," Beau mused. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and said, "This homicide thing wouldn't such a bad gig. Did you see what they've got down there? A board with the name of every victim. In red. When it's solved, the name goes up in black." He spread his hands. "You've done something, you know?"   
  
"Not all homicides get closed in a day, you know?"   
  
"So you ladies keep reminding me." He was silent for a minute. "No pay raise, but the hours can't be any worse. And I can't decide if the chance to screw with Frank Pembleton every day is a plus or. . ."   
  
"You serious?" Megan asked in surprise.   
  
"I know it's a longshot," he answered, inhaling deeply from the cigarette. "But, hell, Kay said she needs a partner."   
  
"Ohh-ooh." Russert smiled. "Ka-aay."   
  
Beau waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing like that, Megan. No seriously. . .she seems like a good cop, but she's not that kind of woman."   
  
Megan's eyebrows rose. "Meaning she's what? Gay, ugly, or taken?"   
  
He frowned. "None - that I know of anyway. She's just. . .all business."   
  
Megan leaned back, turned her head for a moment, then faced him again. Her tone was still light, but with a serious note.   
  
"Does that mean I'm not?"   
  
"All business?" Felton considered. "Well, you were flirting with the voodoo kid."   
  
"Everybody flirts with Frank, Beau. He's just like that. And totally safe, because, from what I hear, he's very happily married."   
  
Beau lowered his gaze at Megan. "Aren't you?"   
  
She stood, turned away, and wrapped her fingers through the chain link fence. "Isn't everybody?"   
  
"Megan," Beau murmured. He rose to his feet and stood behind her. She wouldn't face him and he said, "This isn't easy." A hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him. "Megan, what I said to Doug? Drunk talk, okay? Macho drunk talk. I've got a lot of respect for you, so please don't think I don't." She nodded slowly, and he let out his breath. "Just thought we should have that in the open."   
  
"Yeah, well. . .Well, you're right, and. . .Thanks, really." Nodding repeatedly. "Now I guess, it's my turn, I have to admit. . .this whole thing, riding with you this week?"   
  
"Doug put you up to it?" Beau asked flatly.   
  
Megan blinked in surprise. "No, I mean, why would he. . .? To mess with you, I guess. I guess that was, a little, but. . ." She shook her head vigorously and realized that, far from looking offended, Beau was smiling. She always seemed so controlled, so together; Felton must have gotten some perverse joy out of seeing her flustered. The odd thing was that she was enjoying the sensation herself, and no feelings of guilt, loyalty, or even irony could undo that realization. "I don't always know why I do things anymore, Beau," she sighed. "Maybe part of me even enjoyed believing that you - well, that you had a - a thing for me."   
  
"I do," he answered and, after her own babbling, the bluntness of the comment struck her with double force. She had no answer and he spread his hands, "I'm not saying I'd do anything, even if you wanted. . . ." He swallowed. "I know, we've got - other people."   
  
They both leaned against the fence now, and Beau lit another cigarette. "So. What's he like?"   
  
"He?"   
  
"You know." A pause. "Gant and Donovan."   
  
"Well. . .Gant is sixty-eight with a bad hairpiece and liver spots, and he likes to play grabass with the secretarial pool."   
  
Beau wiggled an eyebrow. "Sounds like my kinda guy."   
  
"Huh. . ." She smiled. "Donovan. . .Smart. . .thoughtful. . . a great father. . .a good hand with an electric drill, not so much with a lawnmower, so it's good we live in a fixer-upper in the city. . ."   
  
"Handsome? Sexy?"   
  
She wrinkled her nose. "You wouldn't think so."   
  
"No, Megan," he said drily, "I probably wouldn't."   
  
"I mean, you wouldn't think I'd think so. Nobody would mistake Mike for a movie star. But. . .we've had a good life together, if that's what you're asking."   
  
Beau noted the verb tense and looked at her oddly.   
  
The next words came out in a sigh. "He's sick."   
  
"Sick like. . .?" Beau looked baffled.   
  
"Cancer," she said quietly. "I mean, he got through chemo about a month ago. In remission, now . It'll be months before they know, and if he's clean then, everything should be fine . . ."   
  
Felton was staring at her, then found his voice. "God, Megan, make me feel like a jerk!" he choked out.   
  
"Beau?" she asked in surprise.   
  
"Here I am, saying - saying stuff - to you, to a woman with a husband who - are you trying to make me feel like a jerk?"   
  
"Of course not," she soothed him. "You didn't know. . ."   
  
"You didn't tell me," Beau shot back. He gathered his arms around his chest, turned from her, and leaned back sulkily against the fence.   
  
"I didn't tell anybody," she said gently. "I mean, I haven't - hardly anyone. Doug knows, because he's friends with Mike and - well, because he's my partner. The lieutenant knows - just that I've taken family time, not the details." Beau frowned at her from under his dark eyebrows and her voice took on a defensive tone. "It's hard enough being a woman in this job, without parading your personal life in front of. . ."   
  
"So why tell me?" His tone was flat, his eyes unreadable.   
  
Megan stared at him in silence for a while, then whispered. "I don't know." She squeezed her temples. "Because I just want you to understand that I'm in a bad place right now and. . . I don't always know why I do things and. . . well, it's just not a good time for me to be thinking about 'What could happen if things were different,' all the things people always say when they both. . ." Their eyes met and held that way for a long moment.   
  
Felton was the first to pull away. He shook his head and murmured, "All right, all right. And - things went well this week." A smile. "We showed 'em, huh? But. . .I'll understand if you don't think. . .again, you and me."   
  
She nodded. "Probably not a good idea."   
  
Beau smashed the last cigarette under his foot and turned to retrieve a barely-touched Coke from the picnic table. He raised it. "Thanks for the drink. Cheers."   
  
"I think that's mine," she whispered, reaching out for it. Their fingers touched, their eyes held again, and she said, "He wants to have a baby."   
  
Beau released the can and eased his way back onto the table. "Donovan?"   
  
"Mike, yeah. He told me today."   
  
"Was this. . . did it surprise you?" Beau's wasn't used to being anyone's confidante. He hadn't exactly cultivated the skill of saying the right thing, or making all the right listening sounds. But the strain of separating her work from her home life was clearly weighing on Megan, Beau thought. She needed someone to understand. The harbor lights played in her hair, the pain worked in her face, and she had never, he thought, looked more beautiful.   
  
"We had talked about it - for years, we always wanted - at least one more. We were waiting for - the right time in my career, I guess, when I didn't have to be on the street as much." She was counting on a promotion, Beau realized, as annoyed as she had been at him for suggesting it. . "Since. . .well, since he was diagnosed. We hadn't talked about it. At all. I guess I just thought - so today was kind of out of the blue."   
  
"So. . ." Beau asked. "He wants to have a baby. . .when he gets better?"   
  
Megan shook her head. "In case he doesn't get better. I think." She looked up at Felton and said apologetically, "I guess - well, Doug's not around and I sort of wanted a male perspective and. . .does that seem a little weird to you?"   
  
"Weird?" Beau shrugged. "Not really. Scary as it is when I look at mine, our kids are our best shot at immortality."   
  
"I knew you'd say that!" Megan cried. "What is that? Only men think that. You'll never hear that from a woman."   
  
"Only men can become parents nine months after they die," he answered. "The week me and Beth found out she was having Zack, this junkie pulled a gun on me. It took him about a second to realize how stupid that was, and he dropped it, but I'm standing there thinking - I could be dead, and I've got a kid not even born. It was scary as hell, but . . .well, almost comforting."   
  
"It wouldn't have been for your wife," Megan said forcefully, then breathed out a sigh. "Beau, it rips me up just to think about Mike - about not having Mike, but, if it comes to that, it'll be hard enough being on my own with Caroline without - " Beau saw tears pooling in her eyes, and he gingerly placed a hand on her arm. "I just can't, Beau, I can't think about. . ."   
  
"Then don't," he answered softly. "If he loves you - I know he loves you - he'll understand."   
  
Megan wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "But then I think - if I don't do this now - will I regret it one day?"   
  
"We never know what things we'll regret," he answered, then smiled as the obviousness of the statement occurred to him. "If we did, we wouldn't do them."   
  
"Or we would," Megan answered. "Instead of not doing something, I mean. As the case may be." She laughed softly. Beau joined in, but the sound faded as suddenly as it had begun. "It's late," she sighed. "I need to go home."   
  
Instead she rested her head against Beau's shoulder. The "Broadway Pier" sign glowed behind them, and they stood for a long time, watching lights turn on across the harbor.   
  
END  
  
? 


End file.
